Isolationist Theory
by Neko-chan -Silvered Tongue
Summary: The boy who cried wolf: You know, there's only so much that a boy hero can take. After becoming the wizarding world's scapegoat during the summer after the Triwizard Tournament, Harry decides that enough is enough—and flips Britain the bird. He transfers.
1. Zéro

_Title:_ Isolationist Theory

_Author:_ Neko-chan

_Fandom:_ Harry Potter

_Rating:_ T, eventual M

_Pairing:_ [undecided – please see author's note below]

_Disclaimer:_ There are many things that I have claim to—like, for example, delusions of grandeur. However, Harry Potter is unfortunately one of the few that I can't have for myself. :( *shakes fist*

_Summary:_ The boy who cried wolf: You know, there's only so much that a boy hero can take. After becoming the wizarding world's scapegoat during the summer after the Triwizard Tournament, Harry decides that enough is enough—and flips Britain the bird. So he transfers. No, not to Durmstrang. To Beauxbatons.

_Author's Note:_ I've been reading a lot of Harry-goes-to-Durmstrang stories lately—really; _a lot_—and I've noticed the trend that those stories tend to lean more heavily on Dark!Harry. Which I do love. But then I started wondering… well. What would happen if Harry ended up attending _Beauxbatons_? –to which followed thoughts on how the students conducted themselves and what the French academy might have emphasized: politics, etiquette, grace, and degrees of sophistication, as well as magic. After considering this, a little plot bunny then popped into existence, looked at me, smirked, and promptly greeted me with a, "Yo." And then tried to bro-fist me. I attempted to shoot it dead, but—as you can see—I failed. Epically. _Really _epically. Anyway, before I launch into the prologue: I'm undecided on pairings, but I have one of three in mind. So I figured that I might as well ask to see if anyone would prefer one over the other two: Harry with Voldemort, Lucius, or Draco. Let me know what would pique your interest in reading? :) No promises, but I _will_ take feedback into consideration.

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**- Prologue -  
Zéro **

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_It was infuriating_, the boy with verdigris eyes thought as he crumpled the Daily Prophet into his hand, smashing it vindictively into as small a ball as possible, after which he tossed it at the rubbish bin in the corner of his small room. _It was __**infuriating**__, the things that they got away with saying: that Dumbledore had gone senile in his old age, that he wanted to relive his glory days after the defeat of Grindelwald by spouting the fact that You-Know-Who was back. And that he, Harry, was nothing more than a disturbed, attention-seeking child who happened to have psychological, pathological lying problems: at heart, nothing more than Dumbledore's pawn and a perfect representation of the boy who cried wolf_.

The articles by Rita Skeeter had finally gotten to the point where Harry was considering suing for libel. Unfortunately, with the current political climate and public opinion, Harry knew that there was no chance that that particular case would ever by won by him—and, thus, there was little point in even trying. What was the point?

And yet...

It wasn't even, in the end, that Harry was angriest at the articles that Skeeter wrote.

No, what hurt the most were the Letters to the Editor. He had known, for years, that wizards and witches were a fickle, capricious bunch—the incident during second year after the disastrous duel with Malfoy had managed to prove that without a doubt. But despite the intellectual knowledge, no matter the fact that Harry had _known_ that he would have to steel himself for the words that would come from the majority of the wizarding population—had already come from many during the Good-bye Feast and the speech that Dumbledore had said—despite it all…

It hurt.

These were letters from men and women that he had never met, had never had the chance to speak to, and it didn't matter how thoroughly he tried to distance himself from their words: there still remained the fact that they were malicious words, words meant to harm and to rend and to dishearten. They were doing an excellent job.

…_obvious nutcase…_

…_couldn't get enough of the fame that came with his parents' death…_

…_so desperate to have people give him the smallest amount of regard…_

…_deceitful, obviously with every word coming from his mouth a lie…_

…_craves attention to the point that he's willing to terrorize the good wizarding folk…_

All snippets, nothing more, from hundreds of letters already printed in the newspaper. And as each day passed and more and more people began to feel heatedly about Dumbledore's speeches, the claims that Voldemort was back… the section for readers' responses became thicker and thicker. Already, it took up nearly half of the _Daily Prophet_, and every letter oozed vitriol and spite.

Harry knew that he shouldn't read the letters; they served no purpose and only discouraged him further. And yet… and yet… still depressed over the loss of Cedric's life, Harry couldn't help but be aghast at the wizarding world's reaction. Their malice and deliberate obtuseness: their obliviousness and the way that they willingly, wholeheartedly pulled the blindfold over their eyes.

_These_ were the people that he was supposed to save?

_These_ were the people whose Saviour he was supposed to be?

_These_ were the people who supposedly lauded him as their Golden Boy, their scion of Light and Happiness and Hope? These petty, shallow people who lashed out with razor-sharp malice when things apparently weren't going their way?

_These_ were the people that Harry was supposed to feel grateful towards?

Was supposed to desire to be among, to _join_?

As the days passed and slowly, lazily melted into the idle weeks of summer, Harry spent more and more time in the smallest bedroom of Number 4 Privet Drive, sitting on the floor with his back against the bed as he considered the growing pile of balled-up _Daily Prophets._

The days passed, the weeks passed, a solid month—month and a half—passed, and the burning cauldron of discontent and quiet fury continued to build as each issue of the _Daily Prophet_ grew thicker and thicker.

In the end, however, it was the silence that placed the last nail in the coffin.

Ron and Hermione had both promised to write to him often, Sirius had looked at him with sympathy and understanding and mentioned that he would come by once or twice as Snuffles, and Dumbledore had been unable to look at him since the night of the Third Task: the silence that he had been given was damning, especially since his letters went unanswered—though not unread because Hedwig always returned to him without them. He waited and waited, expecting and hoping and watching the skies for letters that never came. There was nothing.

And it was one day, five days before his fifteenth birthday, that Harry sat down upon his bed, hands clasped between his knees, and considered what it was that he truly wanted to do. He had become a pariah within the wizarding world and the people that he had considered closest to him had cut him completely out of their lives, effective through their lack of communication.

Harry idly rocked back and forth on his haunches, mulling over the choices that he had, few though they were. He could stick things out and put up with the pernicious opinion of the public at large and continue supporting the Headmaster, returning to Hogwarts. He could see if it was possible to drop out completely and instead attend a Muggle school, going through the rest of his life pretending that the wizarding world didn't exist as he lived out his days as a non-magical. That choice left a sour taste in his mouth, but Harry knew that he shouldn't completely disregard it. Every option had merit, was viable at this point. Or, perhaps, he could transfer... and Harry froze in his movements.

It was that last thought that gave the wizard teen pause.

_Transfer_…?

He could leave Britain behind—and it was finally getting to the point where Harry would have happily flipped the whole lot of them the bird as he did so—and go to Durmstrang or Beauxbatons. The thought had merit, though Harry didn't think that he could bring himself to attend Durmstrang, not with the knowledge that an ex-Death Eater had been its last Headmaster.

But Beauxbatons…

Beauxbatons had potential.

Pushing himself upwards, Harry whistled for Hedwig and began to pen an anonymous request for a packet on the school with details as to how one would go about applying for a transfer so late in a student's academic career. Perhaps this would end up working out. Perhaps not. But if Harry didn't at least _try _to find out more, he could only blame himself for being miserable amongst a population who said his name with a sneer.

* * *

The morning of July 31st arrived with a smiling green-eyed Slytherin-in-Gryffindor-colors making his way down the stairway half an hour before lunch. "Good morning, Aunt Petunia," the fifteen year-old greeted as he sat across from the horse-faced woman.

Petunia Dursley looked Harry up and down, lip curling in disgust as she nonchalantly went back to her lady's magazine and the latest gossip tabloid that was hidden within it. "Finished up cleaning the upstairs' rooms, have you? Then go and weed the back and front yards, freak."

Harry reigned in his temper, but it was a near thing. "I'll go and do that right away, but… first, I'd like to ask you for a favor." Ignoring the way that the woman laughed in derision, the teenager continued: "I'm thinking about transferring schools, but I need you to sign the release forms since you're my guardian, Aunt Petunia."

"And why would I do that?" Petunia asked in clipped tones.

The smile that her nephew gave to her was practically cherubic. "Because the school that I want to go to has _summer classes_ for students who are interested in taking them. I was looking them over and they seem rather interesting, so I'll probably elect to take them…"

Never before, the wizard thought later on whilst in the safety of his bedroom as he watched Hedwig fly away with the important transfer documents, had Harry seen his aunt move as fast as she did at that moment when she lunged forward for the papers and the pen that he had held in his hands.


	2. Un

_Author's Note:_ Holy crap! O_O After seeing the reaction to the prologue, maybe I _should_ have bro-fisted the plot bunny back in early gratitude. Anyway, thank you so incredibly much for all of the reviews for the prologue! I never expected that many, and… wow. Totally blown away. XD Also, just as a side note: A lot of you guys sure know how to utterly destroy a man's ego. Poor Draco. *pets his ferrety head* As I promised, I'll be taking your thoughts into consideration, but I did want to warn you that any pairings be very slow in coming—Harry has to first get used to his new school. And make new friends. (And, randomly, are there any French speakers out there who might want to occasionally help me with dialogue?)

As a last point, I just wanted to let you know that the foreigners will have accents. I can't bring myself to write them out (OCD English major, here), but they are there! I promise! Really! The only exceptions to my rule are Dumbley-door (because I lol'd) and 'Arry (because it's cute). _Isolationist Theory_, like _Cacoethes_ and _Mephistophilis, My Mephistophilis_, will be irregularly updated—but _will not_ be abandoned. I'll probably rotate amongst the three in my updates. Future chapters will slowly get longer as the story develops.

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**Un**

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September 1st soon arrived, and King's Cross Station was filled to the brim with chattering Hogwarts students making their way through the crowds of Muggles to head towards the barrier that led to Platform 9 ¾ and the Hogwarts Express beyond.

"Do you see Harry anywhere?" Ginny asked with a slight frown on her face as she and the rest of the Weasleys, as well as Hermione, gathered together in a group to wish each other farewell for the last time before the train departed.

"He's probably on the train already, dear," Molly Weasley answered, cupping Ginny's face between her hands before giving her only daughter an affectionate hug: her only daughter, growing up so fast: intelligent, good, and beautiful—soon she'd have to be beating all of the suitors away from Ginny!

However, on the outskirts of the group, a large, black dog whined worriedly: while Molly's explanation might have had merit, Sirius' senses were incredibly sharp while in his animagus form. And while he might have otherwise taken her suggestion and left it at that, Sirius couldn't smell Harry. _Anywhere_. And with two minutes to go before the train left, there was a very real chance that Harry wouldn't catch the Hogwarts Express. It was always prompt, always on time—and after the disaster that happened in second year, Harry had once mentioned to him that he always arrived exceptionally early so that he would never again miss the train to Hogwarts.

But how to express his concern to Mrs. Weasley…?

He was forced to remain as "Snuffles" as the matronly woman shooed the children up onto the platform, and he was forced to still remain in his Grim form until he and Mrs. Weasley managed to finally return to Number 12, Grimmauld Place. The moment that the front door shut behind him, Sirius turned back and reached out to clutch tightly at the redheaded mother's arms.

"Harry wasn't there."

Eyes widening in alarm, Mrs. Weasley gasped as returned the ex-convict's grip with one of her own. "Sirius! Are you certain? But… But Harry had probably already boarded the train—"

"No, I would have still caught his scent if he had arrived earlier and just boarded the train before everyone else. He _wasn't there_, Molly. Harry didn't catch the train to Hogwarts."

"Oh, my…" Mrs. Weasley said, hand coming up to cover her mouth as all sorts of horrible scenarios began to flash in her mind—terrible, terrible things that could have happened to the poor boy. What if the Dark Lord…?

Strengthening her knees so that they wouldn't give out in shock, Molly Weasley thrust back her shoulders and immediately headed towards the fireplace that was hooked up to the Floo Network. "We need to notify Albus of this."

* * *

While the students of Hogwarts were preparing to board their train to school, Harry was doing the same:

International Floo travel was highly restricted and since Harry wasn't old enough to Apparate, he had instead decided to head off to Beauxbatons the old-fashioned way: the Muggle way. Of course, with the newly-built Chunnel, this was infinitely easier to do—though he wouldn't have any pumpkin pasties or Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans or Licorice Wands or Chocolate Frogs, there was still something magical in boarding the Eurostar in St. Pancras International Train Station to be whisked off to Gare du Nord Train Station in Paris.

There, he would meet one of his new professors—Professeur Aurélie Bable, who taught Transfiguration and something called Bloodline Traits—and off they would both go to Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons' schoolgrounds. A sprawling, glittering palace—a school of decadence, of magic, of etiquette, and of Society. A fairy-tale _château_. A place completely, impossibly different from Hogwarts—and exactly what Harry wanted.

He hadn't understood why the students had acted so different than those from Durmstrang and from Hogwarts, but after reading through the introductory student manual to Beauxbatons… Harry was beginning to understand.

Politeness was emphasized (hence why the students had always stood when a professor or Headmaster/mistress entered into a room while they had stayed during the Triwizard Tournament), and Politics was one of the core classes that was a required part of Harry's schedule. History, Etiquette, Diplomacy, Transfiguration, Potions, Charms, Bloodline Traits, Rituals—these classes and more made Harry's schedule horrendously full; he would be attending classes from eight in the morning until six in the evening every single day except for weekends, but…

He was out of Britain.

He was away from Hogwarts.

He was finally, finally _free_!

Harry could have had classes from four in the morning until midnight, and he still wouldn't have given a flying fig: he was still getting the chance to try someplace new, someplace different, someplace where he would have the chance to start fresh, learn new and exciting things—his curriculum was varied and was no longer the same-place-same-time routine that had begun to make Harry feel stagnant and bored. This…? _This_ was an adventure!

The vert-eyed teen grinned widely at that thought, fingers curling possessively over his student manual at the thought, the realization that in two hours and fifteen minutes—the length of time that it would take to arrive in Paris—he would finally be able to make a home _somewhere else._

As the Eurostar began to pull away from the platform, Harry stifled a shiver of delight and closed his eyes, feeling the train slowly but surely pick up speed. "Good-bye and good riddance," he whispered, thinking back to the small bonfire that he had had the night before, the bonfire that had grown in size as he had tossed issues of the _Daily Prophet_—one by one—to be consumed by the flames.

* * *

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was… concerned.

Oh, he wasn't worried—it was far too early to be _worried_—but he was, most assuredly, _concerned_. And though he ignored the tightening, the feeling of dread that settled in the bottom of his stomach, the Headmaster of Hogwarts refused to yet admit that he was afraid.

He had listened to Molly Weasley and Sirius Black's near-frantic report when they had contacted him via Floo earlier in the day, the report that stated that young Harry hadn't gotten on the Hogwarts Express—but he had soothed their fears and had assured them that perhaps they were mistaken. After all, many people came and went on Platform 9 ¾ during the day of September 1st. Perhaps Sirius had just missed Harry's scent…? Too many people and, though he was a dog animagus, it did not necessarily mean that his senses were as sharp as a _true_ canine's.

In the end, it was all just a great misunderstanding, and he reassured them both that he would Floo them later on in the evening, after the Welcoming Feast, to offer reassurances that Harry had arrived at Hogwarts safe and sound.

The hiccup in this plan came due to the fact that Harry was _not_ here at Hogwarts—safe and sound or otherwise. He was _not_ roaming the corridors (Dumbledore would have felt his presence the moment that he had stepped past the wards), he was _not_ being detained by Peeves in some dusty part of the castle, and he was most assuredly _not_ at the Gryffindor Table.

Miss Granger and young Ronald were looking around the Great Hall, as well as up and down their own Table, faces worried as they leaned in close to people to perhaps ask other students if they had seen Harry around—if anyone had seen the boy on the train. Each and every time they posed their questions, however, both children were given negatives in answer.

But…

But this could only be a misunderstanding. Nothing more.

Harry had to remain alive, had to take up the role as the scion of the Light—had to be seen in public, had to be his true Gryffindor self. Had to remain near Hogwarts so that Dumbledore could keep an eye on the Horcrux attached to the poor boy's very soul… There was so much riding on Harry remaining close: the wizarding world, the prophecy, their very way of life that Voldemort threatened with his very presence. And now that Tom was back and had achieved his goal in reclaiming a body…

Mind unsettled as thoughts began to swarm upon each other as sharks do during a feeding frenzy, Dumbledore kept his bright blue gaze firmly upon the Gryffindor Table, watching young Ronald and Miss Granger carefully, attention sharp and focused and intent to wait until he saw that they had discovered something. And yet, even towards the end of the Feast, that discovery never came.

It was whilst the prefect were gathering together their Houses, urging the different students to follow them as imprinted ducklings did with their mother, it was then that Minerva—sweet, sweet Minnie—leaned forward with a leonine smile upon her lips and a dangerous glint in her eye, and commented in what others would believe to be a nonchalant tone, "Albus, I noticed that Harry Potter wasn't at the Welcoming Feast."

Dumbledore cleared his throat and upped the twinkle in his eye as he gave Minnie—oh, dear, were those teeth looking a bit sharper than they had just now…?—his most benign and grandfatherly smile. "I do believe that the dear boy is playing a grand prank on us all! He hasn't shown up at Hogwarts."

"_WHAT?_"

* * *

The first thing that Harry noticed about Gare du Nord was how large it was: an incredibly huge building, open space, and with windows _everywhere_ that let in the mid-afternoon light. He couldn't stop the way that his jaw dropped in impressed awe, and the teen also knew that he'd be developing a crick in his neck with how he tilted his head back and back and back to look up at the skylights high overhead.

While the wizarding world was full of its own wonders, so too was the Muggle world: built during the Victorian Era, this train station reeked of grandeur and magnificence—and it reminded Harry that he could still remain proud of the heritage that he had been gifted from his mother. And that was a thought that brought a smile to Harry's mouth.

It was true that the world was filled with death and violence, hatred and petty cruelty: but the world was also filled with grandeur and beauty, epic feats that most would have thought impossible—the world was filled with both light and dark, and one had to accept both in order to appreciate either at all.

"'Arry Potter?"

Blinking, the teen with mussed hair looked over his shoulder to meet the amused amber eyes of an elegant woman in her (perhaps?) early thirties. With red hair neatly tied back into a complicated chignon, she exuded sophistication from the tips of her designer shoes to the top of her head—which didn't have a hair out of place.

Slowly, Harry began to smile; he turned around completely and gave a slight bow, as the boys who attended Beauxbatons were instructed to do when coming across a professor or an upperclassman for the first time. "Professeur Bable? _Bonjour_," he greeted, accent atrocious. "_Content de vous rencontrer_."

Professeur Bable gave a soft, delighted laugh and pressed a kiss to Harry's cheek in greeting. "And I am very pleased to meet you, as well," she murmured, her own accent lilting and delightfully playful (and most assuredly much more pleasant to listen to than Harry's) as she took in her new charge, threading her arm with the boy's so that the young professor could begin to lead them both outside, to the mainstream and Muggle part of the city. "Welcome, dear 'Arry. Welcome to Paris."


	3. Deux

**Deux**

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Instead of taking a Portkey or Apparating directly to the grounds of Beauxbatons, Professeur Bable and Harry instead made their way leisurely towards the train station's exit; people easily fell away from the two of them, eyes wide as they took in the obviously posh woman—and wondering just what she was doing anywhere near a boy who could only be described as a bedraggled ragamuffin.

The redheaded professor took in their stares and glanced back at the dissenters, gaze icy as she led Harry towards an elegant white limousine that was parked at the curb. Harry blinked at the sight, pausing briefly as he looked uncertainly at his new professor. "Madame…?" he asked, and Professeur Bable was once more reminded of just how _young_ this boy was—and the trials and tribulations that were already weighing his shoulders down.

"Ah, I should have explained before; your confusion is my fault, and I apologize for that, 'Arry," Professeur Bable said with a quick smile before gesturing the British teen into the limo. "Headmistress Maxime told me that you would be in need of a new wardrobe, and I thought that we might go on a shopping spree before heading off to Beauxbatons."

Harry frowned at that, obviously confused. "…but why would I need to go on a shopping spree? I already have clothes, professeur."

The elegant woman crossed a leg over a knee and slowly raised an eyebrow as she looked her new charge up and down. "Are the clothes that you brought with you anything like what you're wearing now?" she asked, tone clipped though her amber eyes remained kind. Harry flushed at that and nodded before quickly glancing down. He realized, belatedly, what type of image he must have portrayed while he had walked arm-in-arm with Professeur Bable. The woman sighed quietly then and reached out to gently settle her fingers upon his arm.

"The student is the image of the school," she said softly, explaining. "A student must always take pride in how he or she looks because it reflects upon the school itself. If a student is proud of himself, he dresses well because he will want others to think favorably upon the institution in which he came from. If a student dresses slovenly, takes no pride in his appearance…"

"But it's just clothes," Harry whispered, flush deepening.

"True, true, my little lion," Professeur Bable said, fingers squeezing over Harry's arm. "But when you were attending the Yule Ball during the Triwizard Tournament, did you not dress well?"

"Well, yes, but—"

The professor didn't give him a chance to continue, however: "You dressed well because it was expected of you. You were on display before the entire school—Hogwarts and its guests—and you were a physical representation of your alma mater. Yes, the Yule Ball was an important event, and yet: shouldn't attendance at a highly-rated academy also be considered important despite the fact that it is a daily occurrence? After all, if one does not have pride in one's education, what might a person be able to take pride in?"

Harry frowned, mulling over what he was told before finally venturing, "But isn't it a rather shallow reasoning? It's all about image, in the end."

"Mmm," Professeur Bable hummed softly, the sound melodic. "But the image is tied to the school, and shouldn't one want the school that is laying the foundation for a future full of opportunities… wouldn't that school deserve students to represent it to its full capacity?" Despite the fact that Harry didn't necessarily agree, he slowly nodded and continued to mull over his thoughts and the argument that his Transfiguration professor was laying out for him. In a way, he could understand—after all, wasn't that one of the reasons why both Muggle and magical academies required uniforms? And yet…

"I can understand that, yes, but why are we still going shopping? I have the robes for school already packed away. I don't really need any other clothes…"

A small glass of red wine appeared in Professeur Bable's hand then, and she brought the rim of the glass to her mouth, sipping slowly as she considered her charge. "Perhaps. Though the uniform will work while you're at school. And yet, when you're on your own… tell me, my little lion, how you felt when you saw the looks that people were giving to you when you were walking at my side."

Hoping that she hadn't noticed them, Harry flushed crimson: from the hairline beneath the messy fringe to the hollow of his throat, he was an ugly, mottled color of shame and embarrassment. He had learned, through the years, to ignore the looks and continue on with what he was already doing. But walking next to such an obviously sophisticated woman… the looks became that much more pronounced. That much more noticeable.

Though she wanted to drive the point home, Professeur Bable still was not an unnecessarily cruel woman. She sighed softly and pressed a gentle kiss to Harry's cheek. "And that, my sweet boy, is why you shall go clothes shopping with me. This shall be your new home—for the rest of your life, I should hope—and you deserve a chance to start over, to ensure that no one ever looks at you that way again. I have heard many stories regarding your talent, your intelligence, and your resourcefulness. You deserve the respect that shall be granted to you. And with this? No one will think that you are less than what you truly are. Besides~" And here, the woman laughed softly, giving Harry a coy smile that made him flush for a completely _different_ reason. "I am a woman, and I would _love_ to be given a chance to find something for you to make those pretty eyes of yours stand out. Surely you will not deny me this?"

Harry sighed quietly, admitting defeat. "All right."

"_Parfait_," Professeur Bable murmured, smile pleased as she returned to lightly sipping her glass of red wine. Her expression worried Harry in just how satisfied she looked—and Harry began to wonder just what she intended for their impromptu shopping expedition. And if he would come out of it unscathed.

* * *

Streetlights were slowly starting to come to life by the time that Professeur Bable and Harry were finished with their shopping. Currently, the dark-haired ex-Gryffindor stood before the mirror within the last boutique that they had gone to: head tilted to the side, he looked at his reflection with eyes that were slightly wide at the surprise that had taken place.

He was dressed in a simple outfit: black vest paired with black trousers, and a dress shirt that was several shades lighter than the color of his eyes. Professeur Bable had managed to control the wild mess of his hair with a type of potion, and now it was thick and wavy with an edge of curl—but not unmanageable. And his glasses… Harry hadn't realized before that the glasses that he had been wearing were the wrong prescription. These glasses, though, were masculine but chic, and the best part was that they were correct: and everything that he saw was crystal clear. On Professeur Bable's insistence, he had also tried contact lenses, though he didn't know how often he would wear them since it was just so much easier to slip on glasses in the morning.

At hearing that decision, the woman had snorted in amusement and lightly ruffled his hair. "Ah, to fondly remember the laziness of a student when sleep was so much more important than how one looked," she scolded affectionately, and Harry had just grinned impishly at her.

He was once more transported to the present, however, when the professor came up behind him and settled a hand upon his shoulder as she easily met his gaze in the mirror. "A vast improvement from how you had first arrived in Paris, no?"

"I look like a completely different person," Harry whispered back, awe and a little bit of trepidation and fear filtering into his voice. To that, however, Professeur Bable just smiled and gently squeezed the boy's limb.

"Not a different person," she corrected, voice quiet. "But the person that was within you that was never given the chance to shine. So much power and potential, and now it finally shows _outwardly_, 'Arry."

The last comment caused a slight frown to appear on Harry's face, and he slightly turned to give Professeur Bable his full attention. "But how do you know about… about any potential that I have? Or any power? You might just be wasting your time, you know."

The redheaded woman sighed softly at that, amber eyes going dark with the thoughts that slipped through her mind at Harry's words. The words that Britain's wizarding population had lashed him with had certainly placed a dent in this powerful boy's confidence. "Ah," she finally brought herself to murmur. "It is fortunate, then, that I am the Bloodline Traits' professeur and, thus, have the ability to tell. And I can promise you, 'Arry, that you shall be one of the jewels of our world—and Beauxbatons will offer you the tools needed to help you shine all that much brighter."

The boy flushed at that, gaze dropping, and Professeur Bable gave an amused smirk at Harry's bashfulness and embarrassment. Playfully, she pinched his cheek before moving away from the stool so that Harry could step down. "Come, come. If we hurry, we can return to school while dinner is still in session, and you can meet several of your yearmates who chose to attend the summer classes. You'll have the chance to settle down a little before classes start on the 6th."

Harry listened to his professor for a moment or two before feeling comfortable enough to venture, "I know that the students all spoke English while they went to Hogwarts last year, but we were also in Britain, so that made sense. But now that I'm in France…"

The smile that Professeur Bable gave to Harry bordered on being wickedly amused. "You'll be speaking French, yes, while you attend school." Harry turned a little green at that, scrabbling desperately through his memories to try and remember everything that he could from his Muggle primary lessons in French. Seeing just how ill Harry looked, his professor laughed gaily and finally allowed her teasing to stop. "But there are language charms and potions that help with such things. You'll be discussing it with Headmistress Maxime during your session with her tomorrow, and the two of you will decide which route to take."

"Oh, that's _excellent_," Harry breathed, instantly relieved. He had spent the past month trying to brush up on what he remembered from his language lessons; there were some things that he recalled—mostly simple questions and responses—and it was a relief knowing that he wouldn't be tossed into the deep end of the pool without a life vest. He knew that it hadn't been _that _smart of an idea to investigate schools that were foreign and obviously conducted in another language, but… Harry had been desperate to get away.

Easily following the train of thoughts upon the boy's face—all while making a note to add in how to construct social masks to the boy's class schedule (or perhaps just add it in as an extra element in Diplomacy? she'd have to think this over)—Professeur Bable laughed quietly and once more looped her arm with Harry's as she led them both back towards the limousine.

"Come, come. That's a thought for tomorrow. For now, enjoy today," she chided before gracefully sliding into the car, followed by Harry's gangly, teenage form. Once they were both settled, the car started and the chauffeur began to drive towards the outskirts of Paris, further towards the countryside where the main grounds for Beauxbatons—the primary school, the main school, and the university—resided.

Harry kept silent throughout the rest of the trip: the excitement and fullness of the day were finally catching up to him, and the boy watched the scenery unfold with drowsy, content eyes. He could feel Professeur Bable's amber gaze upon him, but he was comfortable enough with the elegant woman to not feel the need to meet her eyes, the way that he would have with any of the professors from Hogwarts.

Eventually, however, Harry glanced sidelong at the professor, meeting her wolfish eyes. "…could you maybe tell me a little bit about who I might be meeting when we get to the school?" He was nervous about meeting new students, especially since Harry knew that he would have to somehow impress them so that he might gain some new friends. The only ones that he had ever had were Ron and Hermione and… well. He didn't want to think on that just now.

Professeur Bable gave a small smile at that. "There are currently two students in the fifth year who decided to stay for the summer session classes," the woman began. "Both are boys: Jérôme Prideux and Tristan Chevalier. Jérôme comes from an old pureblood line here in France; both the Prideux and the Delacours are looked upon favorably—however, the Delacours have been established much longer and are considered amongst some of the more 'respectable' landed pureblood families while the Prideux family are much more active in the diplomatic scene. The Chevaliers, however…" The professor smiled and waited for Harry's reply to her words, "Tristan is a cambion."

"Huh?"

The pretty woman gave an amused chuckle. "A cambion," she began, lips quirking upwards. "Merlin was such one being: the child born between an incubus or a succubus and a human. During the wars and when it seemed as if Arthur's side was going to lose against the then Roman Emperor Lucius... there was one sole event that managed to turn the tide, and that action was all Merlin's doing. He summoned his father and his uncle to try and bargain for help; through the ages that have gone by, the name of Merlin's father has been lost, but his uncle was known as the Arthurian knight Yvain. After Arthur's eventual defeat, Yvain stayed here, in the mortal realm. I do not know just what he did between then and now, no one knows, but he eventually married a witch and had Tristan. Tristan was the name of another knight in Arthur's court—and supposedly Yvain's best friend."

"I…" Harry began before trailing off, shaking his head. "That's a lot of information to process all in one go."

Professeur Bable smirked. "I know."

* * *

By the time that they arrived at Beauxbatons, it was fully dark. The sun had set ages ago, and the school lay sprawled out in a dip of a valley, buildings lazily making their way over the valley floor: it truly was a palace, as Fleur had once bragged proudly during the Yule Ball, and the lights from the windows twinkled like stars in the twilight of the evening. It was an enchanting sight, not as filled as grandeur and power as Hogwarts had during his first year, but… it was quieter: elegance on display but not ostentatiously so.

"It's beautiful," Harry whispered as the limousine took them down the valley road, deeper into the grounds. He watched everything with wide eyes, eyes that were filled with wonder and gratitude that this was his new home, determination to make this work—to prove himself capable and worthy of any regard that he would have earned. It was how he would have wanted to start Hogwarts, but the reputation that he had had preceded him, and everyone fell over themselves to be noticed by him—despite the fact that Harry hadn't done anything at all.

"It is France's prized possession, but not because of its beauty," Professeur Bable corrected him quietly, though the smile that she gave to the sight was a sweet, contented one. Remembering what they had spoken of before, Harry understood—there was no need to comment on her words and, instead, Harry just watched as the schoolgrounds continued to come closer and closer.

As they stepped out of the car after it came to a stop before a large building, Harry was distracted looking up and up and up the building to take in its grandiose architecture—and his moment of awed distraction allowed for a little blonde blur to run across the pavement and launch herself around his middle.

"'Arry! 'Arry!" the lilting, happy tones of a young girl greeted him. "They told me that you were coming, but I did not believe them! Fleur will be so irate that she missed you tonight. But… _Ma sœur habite en ville_~ So she no longer lives in the dorms, even the university ones—though Maman and Papa are happy that she is back in the house because they miss us so."

Finally realizing just who it was that currently was leeched onto his torso, Harry gave a small smile and hugged the girl back, brief though the embrace was. "It's nice to see you again, Gabrielle," he said when the girl finally stepped back and the teen got the chance to see the eight year-old's face.

She glowed at the fact that Harry remembered her—how could he have forgotten her since he had, after all, "rescued" her during the Second Task?—and gave a quick, elegant curtsy, the way that she was supposed to have properly greeted an upperclassman.

"Welcome to Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons," the girl murmured properly, tone demure and eyes downcast. However, Harry broke the elegance of the moment by reaching forward and lightly ruffling the girl's hair, which made Gabrielle gasp in dismay. She abruptly straightened and immediately went to rearrange the mussed hair.

"I'm glad to be here," Harry answered in reply, giving the young girl a mischief-laden smile. Professeur Bable then proceeded to lead them both towards the building and the eatery that lay within—shooing Gabrielle off towards the primary school section and the yearmates that were eagerly awaiting the news of whether or not the new, handsome transfer student really was Harry Potter—and the poised professor instead led Harry towards the main school's section, nodding briefly at two teen boys. They stood immediately and bowed slightly at their professor.

"Good evening, Professeur Bable," said the boy with hair so black that there was blue undertones within it. His voice was low, melodic—the perfect voice to charm people into giving him what he wanted. Harry quirked an eyebrow at that and wondered to himself if _this_ was Tristan Chevalier. As he was posing the question to himself, the boy glanced up and caught Harry's gaze with his own sapphire-dark one. He winked playfully, and Harry couldn't help the slow smile that he offered up in return.

"Good evening, professeur." The greeting continued on, this time from the second teen: a boy with black, dancing eyes and hair that matched a fox's pelt perfectly. Like the first teen, he originally seemed reserved and distant on the surface—but the glance towards Harry that the British student caught was full of curiosity and interest.

"Good evening, Tristan; good evening, Jérôme," the Transfiguration professor greeted, smile quick though as affectionate as ever. "I'd like to introduce you to one of your new yearmates. This is 'Arry Potter, who just transferred here from Hogwarts. After dinner, I have to finish preparing the syllabus for the new year, and I was wondering if you two would be willing to show 'Arry around."

Jérôme laughed at that and Harry was once more reminded of the bright, darting comparison that he had originally made of thinking the auburn-haired teen a fox. "The perfect opportunity of having Tristan and myself introducing a fellow student to the secrets of Beauxbatons without requiring you to disapprove and act the adult, no?"

Professeur Bable lightly cuffed Jérôme upside the head, though the gesture wasn't as harsh as it could have been—and instead looked to be something of a routine between the two of them. "Behave, little cousin—and just remember that I can still take points from your year even _before_ the school term begins." With that, the amber-eyed woman left Harry to Tristan and Jérôme's care, heading out of the eatery so that she truly could go and finish preparing for the new year.

When they were left alone, Harry blinked and turned to the redhead. "…cousin?"

Jérôme grinned. "Father's sister's daughter," he explained, though the glittering interest never abated as he looked at the foreigner. "I used to be spoiled by her when we were little, but then she became a professeur and… ah, well. We are still family, but I also must play the role of student in the classroom."

"But that is unimportant," Tristan said, cutting in before Jérôme could ramble off the way that he tended to. "You have had, I assume, a very long day. Please sit, 'Arry, and take supper with us—and feel free to ask us any question that you might have about the school."

Harry gratefully took the seat that was offered to him, easing down into the comfortable chair—much better, he thought, than the wooden benches in the Great Hall!—and smiled as food appeared on his plate, much in the same way as at Hogwarts.

As he began to eat, Harry took Tristan up on his offer, though kept his questions to things that were easy to talk about; he didn't want to make a bad impression on either boy, not on his first night here, and Harry tried his best to emulate the easy grace that so many of the students conducted themselves with.

"I know that Beauxbatons offers summer classes for the students who wish to take them… Can I ask what you two signed up for?" the vert-eyed boy eventually asked, figuring that school should be considered a safe enough topic.

Jérôme was the one who picked up on the conversational thread: he began to ramble happily about the various classes that he had managed to take, which then eventually switched to him ranting about several of the professors and their unfairness when it came to some of the criteria needed to know for the class—which then led to him admitting that, true, Beauxbatons' standards were incredibly high, but at least the students did better on all of their exams (as they would be taking in sixth year) than all of the wizarding schools in Europe combined, especially Hogwarts, which usually came in last…

Torn between standing up for his old school and having to acknowledge the fact that Beauxbatons was his new place of learning, Harry bit harshly on the inside of his cheek and glanced away—trying to keep himself from saying anything that would horribly offend the two boys who were his yearmates.

Thankfully, however, Harry didn't have to say anything.

Tristan kicked Jérôme beneath the table, making sure that the strike hurt; and when the fox-like boy yelped in pain and turned to glare at the cambion-wizard, Tristan snapped out a sharp, "_Ta gueule_."

Tristan was unfailingly polite—would _never_ have brought himself to utter such a vulgar way of saying "shut up," and Jérôme's jaw dropped in shock. Satisfied that his friend wouldn't further make an ass of himself, Tristan promptly turned from the redhead and offered his full attention to Harry. "I apologize for Jérôme. Many students feel that it is an honor to attend Beauxbatons, and the pride in the school tends to get away with them—especially if that person is as much of a chatterer as this fool tends to be. However, we apologize if our words have made you uncomfortable."

The novelty of being apologized to… it was something that took Harry aback, and the boy stilled as he mulled over Tristan's words and the peace offering that they held. And… well. At least these boys were apologizing for any awkwardness, unintended as it may have been. Getting an apology, for careless words, was something bright and shiny and new, and something that Harry hadn't been given all summer long—even when the words spoken to him and about him had been unrelentingly cruel.

Slowly, Harry smiled at the both of them and nodded. "I accept, and thank you for it—for realizing that my feelings about Hogwarts are still rather sore. I… well, just. Thank you."

Glad that the awkward moment that he had created had been diffused by Tristan, Jérôme offered up his own smile and reached across the table to lightly clap Harry on the shoulder. "It was my mistake in the first place, and I thank you for being willing to overlook it. As Tristan said, I am a bit of a fool—but I did not mean to offend you or make you uncomfortable. More than anything else… I hope that you will come to love this school as much as I do."

Pleased with the apology that Jérôme himself had managed to give, Tristan nodded and offered up his own smile to the British wizard. "And I agree, and further add: Welcome to Beauxbatons, 'Arry Potter."

And Harry _knew_, then, that this had been a good choice.


	4. Trois

_Author's Note:_ I'm glad that people seem to like Tristan and Jérôme! :D Tristan holds a special place in my heart; he's one of my favorite OCs and has been with me for years and years. *laughs* Also: As for several people asking for Tristan to play "teacher" before Harry is eaten up by a certain big, bad wolf… I'll take those requests into consideration, too. Maybe. ;P *tease tease tease*

* * *

**Trois**

**

* * *

**

The rest of suppertime passed relatively drama-free, what with Jérôme paying much closer attention to what he said to the new transfer student and Tristan more inclined to kick his fox-like friend under the table when it seemed as if the Prideux heir was about to wander into sensitive territory. Honestly, though, Harry didn't mind it so much now: not since he had actually been given an _apology_, something that was still bright and shiny and new in his grasp.

Regardless, however, Jérôme was much more careful about his words—if only to ensure that Tristan wouldn't punish him for his carelessness. The cambion-wizard's aim was, as always, unfailingly true, and the redhead knew that he would already be sporting several bruises from certain things that had still managed to accidentally slip out, even with Jérôme trying to be hyper aware of his words.

Demon-spawn were _vicious_.

Once the meal was finished, however, Harry placed his silverware atop his plates—as he watched everyone else doing, echoing their movements—and offered a slow, interested smile to the Prideux and Chevalier heirs. "…if I remember correctly, I seem to recall that the two of you owe me a tour of the school."

Jérôme laughed at that, getting up and throwing his arm around Harry's shoulder in a show of camaraderie. "That we do, that we do. Now: which would you like to start with first… the restricted areas or the secret passageways? Or the girls'—"

Before the boy got the chance to finish, Harry interrupted him, vert eyes dark with amusement as he suggested, "First? With you ducking."

It was right about then that Tristan cuffed Jérôme upside the head before lightly drawing Harry out of the auburn haired teen's hold. "Please ignore yonder idiot," he murmured to the British boy. "Ever since his parents announced that they would soon begin negotiations for a betrothal for him, the fool has come to the conclusion that _now_, for some reason, is the 'prime of his youth.'" The sapphire-eyed cambion rolled his eyes as he led himself, Harry, and "yonder idiot" out of the eatery and towards the main part of the palace.

Harry slowly raised an eyebrow and glanced over a shoulder to eye Jérôme, who was still absently rubbing the back of his head. "You're fifteen," he felt the need to point out, figuring that the obvious needed to be said.

"And my parents are already picking a wife out for me," the Prideux heir said in answer, tone glum.

The British wizard considered this for a moment and, eyeing Jérôme's rather over-the-top reaction, just quirked his eyebrow higher. "Is she pretty?" he asked, finally pinpointing the pattern that the French prankster was trying to coax the conversation towards.

Jérôme's answering smile was smug and gloating. "The most beautiful woman in the world—beauty enough to put Helen of Troy to shame! Brighter than the sun! More enchanting than the stars and the moon combined! Her eyes, they are like diamonds, though lustrous and so gleaming that no Earth-created gem could hope to compete. Her lips, they are—"

Tristan placed a Silencing Charm on Jérôme, effectively quieting the teen despite the fact that both he and Harry could see that the redhead's effusive compliments were still outpouring in hapless, Shakespearean purple prose.

Amused, Harry's lips deepened into a more comfortable smile and he glanced up at the cambion-wizard. "From his reaction, the girl's someone that he's been head-over-heels for for years and just recently got the news?"

Tristan laughed quietly, the chuckle dark and rubbing like velvet over the exposed areas of Harry's skin; absently, the teen shivered and glanced away to try and ignore the enchantment within the cambion's voice. "Right on both accounts. Jérôme has been trying to get Amaleen Dupont's attention since both were children. First it was because she would never acknowledge him and, when we started school, it grew to be something more. As you can see, annoyingly so."

The verdant-eyed wizard laughed quietly, shaking his head as he let Tristan lead them to parts unknown. "It seems pretty similar to my own parents' story: my dad pursued my mom for years, but she never gave him the time of day. Eventually, though, she agreed to marry him."

"The perfect modern day fairy-tale," Tristan commented idly while he quirked an elegant eyebrow at Harry.

Harry remained silent at that, just giving a small shrug in answer. Perhaps some might have considered it _the perfect modern day fairy-tale_. He knew better, though: fairy-tales always ended with a kiss and a "happily ever after." His parents' story, however, ended with a plea for mercy—for Harry himself to be spared—and a hissed _Avada Kedavra_. Where was the fairy-tale in that?

Picking up on the quiet angst that the British teen gave off in a subdued manner, the cambion—the demon's son—tilted his head to the side and gently drew Harry closer, though Jérôme wouldn't have noticed it, anyway, considering how he was still going on about his betrothed (nevermind the fact that he had been Silenced).

"I have said something that has saddened you," Tristan murmured as a slight frown tugged at the corners of his mouth.

To that, Harry sighed. "Perhaps. But it wasn't something that you had intended. It just reminded me of Britain and my situation with the people, and I know that that's not what you had meant. I don't mean to be overemotional or touchy about it, but… I suppose that it's still a sore subject. Please forgive me, Tristan?"

The rise and fall of the handsome teen's shoulders was elegant. "There is nothing that is needed to forgive, 'Arry," Tristan said, voice thoughtful as he continued, musing aloud. "I have tried to keep up with international events, and I have seen that your relationship with the British wizarding public has not always been… an amiable one." The smile that Harry gave to this understatement was a bitter one. "I…"

Here, Tristan paused before glancing at Harry sidelong. "May I speak my mind freely?"

Harry considered this for several long moments, weigh Tristan's request in his mind, considering the pros and cons that he could think of—and yet, in the end, his thoughts continued to return to the fact that this foreign wizard was the one person who seemed the most considerate of Harry's personal thoughts and feelings. He was polite—almost to a point where others would consider him cold—but it was such a refreshing difference from the rudeness that he had left behind in England. Tristan considered what he said before he spoke, and he ensured that Jérôme kept on task, too: never uttering anything that would make Harry feel particularly unwelcome at Beauxbatons.

True, Harry had to admit that it was a way to manipulate the conversation and though he never approved of manipulation overall… the teen could still realize and admit to himself that it was being done for Harry's own comfort. And it was that realization that made the green-eyed teen realize that his life had always been viewed in shades of black and white, never stopping to consider that gray existed, as well: manipulation was manipulation, but it could be done with someone's comfort in mind.

Finally, Harry answered, "…all right."

The other's thoughts had been buzzing about for several long moments and, though Tristan couldn't tell for sure what it was that Harry had been thinking, the French wizard could still readily see that a new change had suddenly come across Harry—an epiphany, perhaps one that was long in coming, if the brightness and further maturity within those verdigris eyes was anything to go by.

"Even here on the Continent," the cambion-wizard began, voice darkly rich and borderline addicting to listen to. Harry just barely was able to stifle a shiver. "We have—the children our age, I mean, and younger—grown up listening to the stories of the Boy-Who-Lived. The great feat that he managed in vanquishing the Dark Lord when he was just _un enfant_. What you had done… _impossible à faire_. An event that was told only in fairy-tales. But you had done it. And then you disappeared from the world, and it was only until years later that it was discovered that you have been raised by Muggles, unaware of the wizarding world until it came time to attend school. _C'est dégoûtant!_"

Harry blinked in surprise at that, turning his head to the side to give Tristan his full attention. "Why is it disgusting?"

"It was a _waste_," the other wizard answered, his reply coming promptly while Tristan's voice dipped down into a low growl. "You came into our world knowing _nothing_, and then you were expected to know _everything_. The injustice of your situation was just further worsened by your status as the Boy-Who-Lived: you were expected to carry the mantle of fame without having _any_ proper training in how to do so."

Mulling over these words, the British teen frowned slightly before again looking up to meet Tristan's sapphire gaze. "In the package for Beauxbatons, it was mentioned that classes like Deportment, Diplomacy, Etiquette, Politics, and so on were considered electives for certain students, but others were required to take them."

Tristan nodded, glad that Harry had caught on quickly. "_C'est juste_. Pureblood students, students whose families deal in politics, families who are constantly in the limelight… students with situations like these, or situations that are similar, are required to take such classes to ensure that they know how to comport themselves in public: how to carry themselves so that they will be in control of events and not the other way around. We are _trained_ since the moment we enter into the primary school in how to move through Society, learning the things that are required if we should enter into the public eye. What the English did to you…" Tristan's upper lip curled in distaste. "It is like throwing a child into the deep end of a pool and expecting it to know how to swim."

Harry snorted at that. "And I drowned, didn't I?"

"…perhaps," Tristan said, agreeing with a quiet sigh as he allowed the sneer to fade. "But it was not through any fault of your own. The English, they have taken advantage of you—but Beauxbatons will ensure that that will never happen again. You will be shown how to deal with your fame, your popularity, the image that you have been given—but, with the training, _you_ will be able to use the image instead of it using you."

The slim teen gave another snort at that. "So I'm going to learn how to be politic, even though I never wanted the fame in the first place."

"Yes," came the answer, and slight amusement began to filter in through Tristan's tone of voice. "But since you have the fame—and you know full well that it will not leave any time soon—wouldn't you rather use it for your own devices? Right now, your name is a wild animal, running rampant—strong, but uncouth and untrained. That is what makes it so easy for others to tarnish it: because you do not know how to wield it properly."

For the first time, Harry laughed, the sound delightful and amused in a dark sort of way as he glanced over at Tristan with dancing green eyes. The cambion smirked in answer, following the shift in Harry's emotions and having an inkling as to what the boy would be saying next. "So what you're trying to say is that I'm going to be trained in learning how to play the political game."

Tristan hummed in agreement at that and, surprisingly, Harry found himself not as disgusted by that knowledge that he might have once been. While politics still reminded him overmuch of Fudge and the Malfoys—and, my, didn't _that_ leave a nasty taste in his mouth—the experiences that he had had over the past several months brought Harry to the realization that _not_ knowing the proper dance had led him to the situation that he had last found himself while in England.

And that was no longer acceptable.

Giving an absent shrug at that last thought, Harry reached out and threaded his arm with Tristan's, quirking a small smile up at the dark-eyed wizard—and ignoring the fact that Jérôme had (suspiciously?) previously left them behind for parts unknown. "Politics aside, weren't you supposed to be showing me the hidden underbelly of Beauxbatons?" Harry asked, slowly raising an eyebrow in teasing inquiry.

"Some, yes," Tristan agreed with a delighted chuckle. "But a lady never reveals all of her secrets at once—and Beauxbatons is an honorable lady, so I am sure that we will be out exploring for many more nights to come, 'Arry."

Harry's smile was slow, one side of his mouth tugging up slightly higher than the other in such a way that Tristan's gaze sparked with interest—if only for a moment. "Then lead the way, Monsieur Chevalier."

The cambion laughed softly—but did as he was bid.

* * *

"_Bonjour_, Directrice Maxime," Harry greeted the next morning after being bid to enter into the Headmistress' chambers after knocking to let her know of his presence. He bowed slightly, as he knew was expected of him, and easily met Headmistress Maxime's gaze once he straightened.

"_Bonjour_, Monsieur Potter," Madame Maxime answered in return. She gestured towards once of the chairs before her desk, and Harry took it—all the while having her watch him in an assessing manner, gaze thoughtful. "While I normally start off with pleasantries in such meetings… frankly, I am surprised to see you here, in Paris, despite the fact that you did express an interest in transferring."

Harry considered his words for a moment, head tilted to the side as he weighed them; eventually, however, he ventured, "…well… honestly, I don't think that it's truly all that surprising, Directrice. Last year… once the initial shock over the fact that my name got pulled from the Goblet was overcome, the students from Beauxbatons were always unfailingly polite to me." _Unlike everyone else_, was silently implied—and unnecessary, as well, to state aloud. "It was why I finally chose Beauxbatons to come to."

The Headmistress raised her eyebrows at that, before finally shaking her head in slight amusement. "And despite the fact that you mentioned the fact that it was the manners of Beauxbatons' students that drew you to our school, you do also have to admit that it wasn't very polite to refrain from informing Dumbley-door of your transfer, no?"

The boy colored, flushing immediately as he glanced down at his feet. He had been hoping that that point wouldn't be brought up, but… _ah, well_. The cat was out of the bag and there was no way that it'd be willing to be stuffed back in.

"No, ma'am. It wasn't very polite at all," Harry admitted, though his voice dropped to the point where he was almost mumbling. However, the Headmistress would not accept such behavior from one of her students and she cleared her voice pointedly. Promptly—thankfully—Harry straightened and once more lifted his gaze to look at her in the eye. "It was petty and childish, disappearing without a trace," he admitted, voice subdued as he forced himself to be honest. "But… I was angry by the actions of Headmaster Dumbledore, my friends, my godfather, and wizarding Britain. What I did wasn't right, but…"

Headmistress Maxime sighed quietly. "The past few months have not been kind to you. I have seen the articles written in your newspaper."

"Yes," Harry admitted, gaze dropping once more. "The newspapers were all I got from the wizarding world. Everyone else cut themselves off from me. It… hurt." The half-giantess gestured carefully, movement surprisingly graceful as she bid Harry to continue. He cringed at that, hating the fact that he was expected to bare himself in such a way—intensely private, but Harry knew that his transfer was exceedingly noticeable and he'd have no choice but to explain at least some of his reasoning. "The _Daily Prophet_ was the only way that I was able to keep up with the news. The libel printed against me, the words that people I had never before met, it…" Here, Harry sighed and paused for a moment to reorganize the thoughts that he had been contemplating for months but now had to give form aloud.

"I was given the title of the Boy-Who-Lived when I was a baby. I didn't know anything about what I had done or the world that I had come from until I was eleven years old. From the age of eleven, alternatively, I've been painted as a Savior and the Spawn of the Devil. Public opinion is so easily swayed, and I no longer think that it's worth facing some sort of danger each and every year that I've been at school: the Dark Lord, a basilisk, hundreds of Dementors and a rampant werewolf, and a tournament that I was forced to participate in unwillingly—which then ended in a friend's death and the revival of Voldemort. Then, because I told the truth, the public began to say cruel things about me and the people that mattered most to me let me be. This summer has been… rough. I've been thinking about a lot of things—feeling a lot of things—and realized that… I'm tired. Of it. Of _them_. Of being used, I supposed—propped up and dusted off for certain uses but then tucked away again when I'm no longer needed. And… it's not right, is it? I mean… it can't be. Not really. So I decided to leave."

Headmistress Maxime remained silent for several long moments, fingers laced together and hands resting upon the top of her desk as she thought upon Harry's words.

It went without saying that she was quite obviously being given an edited version of things, but—even then—the child's honest frankness was rather astounding. And it made the woman wonder if Harry Potter hadn't finally reached the end of his rope and was blindly, hopelessly, searching for some thing that would help encourage him to continue on. Perhaps, also, this transfer to Beauxbatons was a last-ditch effort to keep himself from collapsing beneath the weight that the British wizarding world continued to pile upon his shoulders, placing more and more burdens on the boy's slim shoulders with the expectation that he would be able to hold up under both their praise and their scorn.

The articles—and letters—within the _Daily Prophet_ had not been compassionate ones.

It was a long while before the Headmistress finally spoke. "Because I am your new Headmistress and have had more experience in dealing with the media and the public, I shall handle the release of information regarding your transfer—both the announcement as well as the reactions that result from it. However, I do think that it's only fair to ask for a favor in return, no?"

Harry's lips pursed and he couldn't stop the immediate flash of suspicion that flared in his eyes—suspicion that made Headmistress Maxime pity the boy for, because she knew that it was not the typical response that a _child_ should have so immediately. It was… saddening, if she wanted to be completely honest with herself, and a surge of anger burned through her at the knowledge that it was caused by a snowballing situation that he had been _placed_ in and had never asked to be part of. Adults were responsible for this. All of it.

"…what favor do you want from me?" Harry eventually managed to ask.

Headmistress Maxime sighed softly and reached out to cup Harry's cheek against her palm, her hand engulfing the boy's head due to her extreme largeness. "I would like you to begin seeing a Mind Healer so that you might begin speaking of these things—so that you might have the chance to truly heal," the giantess said, voice soft.

The boy's eyes widened—widened further—and his breath hitched in surprise. Harry didn't even notice when he began to cry silent tears, chest and throat tightening at Madame Maxime's words: the realization, sharp and as sudden as a flash of lightning, that she was concerned for him, that she wanted to help him. She wanted him to see a Mind Healer, to get him better—and just the thought of finally getting the chance to speak to someone, to have another person help purge the deepening darkness from his mind, his body, his heart, his psyche… it was enough to make Harry feel limp with gratitude.

Adults, an institution—a new place and new people who were less concerned about the _Boy-Who-Lived_ and more focused on making _Harry_ a stronger, better, more _complete_ person. They didn't even know him, not really, and already his professor and his new Headmistress were doing what no one had even paused to consider, _ever_, in the entirety of Harry's life: helping him to see the worth in _himself_. Two days. _Two days_, and Harry was already beginning to feel like a different, a _worthwhile_ person. Fingers curling over the hem of his soft turtleneck, Harry's eyes closed.

"Thank you."


	5. Quatre

_Author's Note:_ Apologies; only one long scene in this chapter. Next one will go back to Harry and his exploration of Beauxbatons and getting to know the two French boys some more (yes, there will be more of Tristan since it seems that other people like him~ :D *pleased*). But, regarding this chapter… had to end things where I did with Chapter Four because… well. You'll see. :| Future chapters will be much longer, though, because the story kicks off from here.

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**Quatre**

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The rest of the conference between Harry and Headmistress Maxime did not last for much longer: embarrassment at his breakdown exuded off of Harry in waves, and the giantess was concerned for the boy's blood pressure levels since his cheeks remained at a bright, flaming red throughout the rest of their conversation. Finally deciding to send him off to meet with his classmates—since several more fifth years had arrived that morning to prepare for the start of the fall term that would begin in several days—the French Headmistress performed a quick language spell for the boy and shoo'd him away.

There were, after all, chores that she had to do once alone.

After the boy left, Headmistress Maxime settled back in her overly large chair for a long moment; ignoring the warning creaking from the structure and temporarily putting concern for good posture on hold, the woman tilted the seat back just enough to lightly rock back and forth on the latter legs. There was much to think about; there was much to mull over; and there was, most importantly, a great deal to feel enraged over.

_I no longer think that it's worth facing some sort of danger each and every year that I've been at school: the Dark Lord, a basilisk, hundreds of Dementors and a rampant werewolf, and a tournament that I was forced to participate in unwillingly—which then ended in a friend's death and the revival of Voldemort._

The boy was but a child. A _child_!

Those in the wizarding world always treasured their children, whether their own or those who were the children of others. Families were blessed with so few children, the magic within a wizard or witch's body interacting in such a way that very few families ever managed to have more than two children—families such as the Weasleys were incredibly rare and were oftentimes held in awe over the fact that they had been thusly blessed. But that was rare, so very rare… no child should be put in danger when there was an adult present to protect him.

The British wizarding community had seemed to lose sight of this tenant that tied all international wizards together into one coherent whole: protect the next generation; cherish the children; coax a child's strength and watch them blossom beneath your tutelage. This _law_ seemed to have been put aside to instead favor an _icon_: the Boy-Who-Lived, and the people had apparently—willingly—disregarded the fact that that icon was nothing more than a newly turned fifteen year-old _boy_. A child. _A child_.

If Harry Potter had been telling the truth about his escapades at school—and what reason did he have to lie?—then the British community had willingly turned their backs on him, forcing the child to fend for himself. He had been left without protection, had been attacked by those who were supposed to _protect_ him: no sane adult would have willingly put a child in harm's way!

But, then again, the actions of the British wizarding population could never be truly labeled as "sane." And the more that Headmistress Maxime considered things, the more disgusted she became. It was no wonder that the boy finally decided to wash his hands of the lot of them—and it was her duty as an adult, as the person that he had turned to for help, to _protect him_. Protect him as the other adults in his life had not, renegading on their responsibilities towards him.

It was with a long sigh that Headmistress Maxime finally pushed herself up out of her comfortable chair to make her way towards the fireplace that was hooked up to the International Floo Network. Carefully, she settled her solid bulk upon the floor, tossing in some of the needed powder; once the green flames flared up, the woman called out in a firm, commanding voice, "'Eadmaster's Office, 'Ogwarts!"

There was no response for many long moments but, finally, Albus Dumbledore's face eventually was discernible amongst the acid-green flames. "Ah! Madame Maxime! This is a surprise; I hadn't expected to hear from you," the elderly wizard greeted, smile quick and eyes as twinkling as ever. Before the Headmistress had the chance to speak, however, Dumbledore continued, "Unfortunately, I don't have the time required to sit down for a pleasant chat—there are several issues that I'm currently dealing with at the moment, and I do apologize but they require my full attention. Would you mind terribly if we had a talk at a later date?"

Headmistress Maxime was silent for some seconds, but she did eventually speak, "Would I be remiss in guessing that these 'issues' are linked to the disappearance of 'Arry Potter, 'Eadmaster Dumbley-door?"

The Headmaster froze abruptly right before he was about to shut down the Floo connection, and his pale gaze sharpened as he turned his complete attention to Olympe Maxime. The half-giantess just smiled noncommittally and smoothed her black hair from her face with a graceful gesture.

The Headmaster and Headmistress had a stare down, but it was the British wizard who finally broke the silent competition between the two. "Is Harry there?"

"Yes," the Headmistress answered, gaze lowered in a demure manner—though Dumbledore was fully aware that it was nothing more than an act. The woman who had managed to claim Hagrid's heart had a fiery temper and, if nothing else, the elderly man remembered just how viciously protective she was of Fleur and her other students during their stay at Hogwarts. His stomach began to sink in trepidation. "He has transferred here to Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons."

Dumbledore seemed to age before her eyes. "You must send him back, Olympe."

Headmistress Maxime laughed softly at that, her voice amused as she looked at the Headmaster with dark, angry eyes. "I must do _nothing_, Dumbley-door. He has transferred here, with his guardians' permission, and you cannot retrieve him since our school is Unplottable."

The lines around Dumbledore's mouth tightened and deepened for a moment in silent fury, but his voice still remained courteous when he spoke once more. "Regardless of the fact that he has permission, you _must_ send him back. He is required at Hogwarts—and England is in need of him, even if the people do not yet realize this."

Once more, the witch laughed gaily. "Why would I send back a boy whose people heap buckets of vitriol upon him and the adults in his life do _nothing but stand by and watch_? It is disgusting, the things that you and others have done to him!" It was then that all traces of superficial amusement dropped and the Headmistress' true fury emerged from where it had been carefully hidden.

"You know _nothing_—" Dumbledore began, his voice crackling like ice.

However, the half-giantess interrupted and her accent thickened in rage. "_Nothing_? I know _nothing_? How dare you, you manipulative old snake! He has told me about the Dementors, the basilisk, fighting against the Dark Lord—and I'm sure that there are plenty of other situations that he does not yet trust me enough to speak of, but those alone are enough! Nothing? _NOTHING_! How _dare_ you place a child, one of our _children_, in such situations! I can only imagine the harm that you have done to him—he trusts no adult, that much is obvious—and you have beaten him down with your neglect! He had no proper clothes—_clothes_, Dumbley-door; items to wear that would make him look something other than a street urchin that has been ushered from off the streets—and I can _see_ that he has not been fed properly! He is obviously malnourished and it may take _years_ to get him up to a healthy weight! And after everything that he has done and lived through, after seeing a friend die before his very eyes this summer, you have _never_ bothered to send him to a Mind Healer! He is _damaged_, you meddling, miserable old _salaud_, and you have betrayed one of the founding structures of our _world_! 'The Childe is Everything.' How dare you. How _dare_ you, and how _dare_ you accuse me of knowing _nothing_."

Dumbledore was silent for several moments before clearing his throat, though his eyes remained diamond-hard. "Regardless, Olympe, you need to send him back. I will make a Wizard's Oath to keep a better eye on him and rectify many of the issues that you have brought up—"

Headmistress Maxime laughed then, and the sound shattered through the Headmaster's words. "You are a fool if you think that I shall ever willingly give 'Arry back to you after what you have done to him. He will learn that you have refrained from teaching him, here at Beauxbatons. You were a _fool_ to think that living with _Muggles_ would prepare him for being the Boy-Who-Lived." The last was said with a sneer, and the Headmistress' eyes were as hard as onyx.

Dumbledore's reply was succinct: "I shall be bringing this up before the International Confederation of Wizards." It was both a warning and a threat—the last chance that the Headmaster would give to the half-giantess before bringing this into the world arena.

Headmistress Maxime smiled exceedingly primly, sweetly at the elderly wizard and reached between the two of them to finally shut down the Floo connection. Before she closed it down completely, however, the eloquent woman said something that had Headmaster Dumbledore's jaw dropping in utter shock, eyes wide at her uncouthness:

"_Allez vous faire enculer_, Dumbley-door."


End file.
